Power of Words
by littleblackdog
Summary: Drabbles, set at various points. Each inspired by a randomly generated word. Rated for some language, and Jack being Jack. Brief Jack/Ianto contained herein.
1. Diplomatic

**Diplomatic** _(Season 2, during "Sleeper")_

"Scratches all over the paint, rear windscreen needs to be replaced—general explosion related damage. Standard." Ianto held up the CB radio he'd chased Jack into his office with, his expression deadly. "But this—do you have any idea what happens to gaffer's tape when exposed to high heat?"

"End of the world situation! It was the only way to contact—" Jack stepped back behind his desk as Ianto advanced on him; he was more nervous than he'd care to admit, and more turned on than Ianto probably would have approved of. The radio was tossed onto a pile of paperwork with an audible thump, and Ianto had him cornered. Jack panicked. "You said I was bad in bed!"

"What?" Ianto stopped. There was still a chair between them. His eyes narrowed. "_What?_" Realising that this was his only shot to get out of this with all limbs intact, Jack straightened up and crossed his arms. He frowned and hoped he looked convincing.

"You agreed with Gwen that my manners in bed were… 'atrocious' is the word I think she used." He leaned back against the wall, trying to look more serious and less like he'd just been trapped there. "If anybody is going to be annoyed, I think I've got a decent case—of kissing and telling and of slander, no less. It's been a while, sure, but I don't recall you ever complaining about my _manners_ before."

There it was, that faint blush inching its way up from that starched collar. Jack gave himself a mental pat on the back then took a step forward, causing Ianto to step back. Still, Jack was quicker, less discombobulated, and managed to wrap one arm around Ianto's shoulders before any escapes could be made. He kept it friendly, because while Ianto might be receptive to the idea of being more than friendly again, he'd also made it clear to Jack that they weren't back where they had been and that an effort would have to be made this time around.

"Here's what I propose." Jack laid his free hand on Ianto's chest because, hey, he was going to be good but not _that_ good. "I'll get some of that industrial adhesive remover and clean off the goo myself. Tomorrow, scouts honour." Ianto's heart was speeding up, and Jack bit back a grin, his palm rubbing slow little circles. "You can call and make an appointment to get the SUV done at that nice garage instead of slaving away at it yourself, and I'll even tell Owen that he has to clear all the gear out first. All you've got to do is invite me over to your place for a nice dinner sometime soon, and I'd call that even. How 'bout it?" The tips of Ianto's ears were pink, which Jack knew was a very promising sign.

"All right." The words came out a bit husky, they both noticed it, and Ianto cleared his throat before continuing. "All right. If it's all cleaned up tomorrow we're even." There was a very pregnant pause, but Jack had more than enough time to wait it out. He smiled, a little smugly, and Ianto sighed. "Tomorrow night, and I'll cook steaks."

It was official. Jack had reasoned Ianto Jones out of a homicidal cleaning rage and into a date; he could talk anybody into or out of anything. He was the _king_. A diplomatic genius. He was just—

Then they both heard the shouting, and it all went to hell. Again.


	2. Heaven

**Heaven** _(Season 1)_

He'd died so many times that he was getting to know the darkness pretty well, in all its crushing, terrifying solitude. Even before he'd died the first time, before he knew for sure what waited at the end, he'd never put much stock in Paradise. No more than he'd put in Hell.

Still, even after all that time and all those deaths, sometimes he found himself thinking about Heaven. Sometimes, most times, he hoped that he was wrong and that the darkness only waited for him, and Suzie, and all those other broken, tarnished people.

Every time he thought about Heaven, he thought about Rose.


	3. Second

**Second** _(Pre-Season 1, written before "Fragments" aired)_

After Canary Wharf, Jack had been dead set against taking on any of the survivors to work at Torchwood Three. They'd all worked for Yvonne, knew what she'd been doing and hadn't had the balls or the brains to do anything about it.

He held them, each of them, at least partly responsible for the deaths of their colleges— for Rose's death too. He didn't want to work with any of them, even _meet_ any of them. He was not prepared to give any second chances.

It didn't make much of a difference anyway. Out of the twenty-seven surviving employees, twenty-two had submitted resignations, and each of them knew full well what a resignation from Torchwood meant. For that, at least, Jack could hardly blame them. He'd seen London afterwards. He'd been to the remains of the Tower, the ruins, and a part of him longed to forget everything about it.

Torchwood Two had the space and were willing to take three of the other five, after a period of recuperation and counselling. Jack had emailed Dalrymple up in Glasgow, expressing his concerns about the transfer, but had been rebuffed. It was one of the reasons that Jack continued keep his team out of Scotland and the team from Two out of his territory as much as possible.

That left a pair of loose, untrustworthy ends, and about a week and a half after the cleanup started, that number dropped to one. Gerald Blackwell had managed to sabotage his own pain medication in hospital, finally dieing after about a day in an overdose-induced coma.

So, one problem left, and Jack was considering possible solutions. Jones, Ianto. Archivist. Twenty-six years old. Employed just over two years at Torchwood One Facility. Last performance review listed him as "Outstanding" and he'd been lined up for a promotion within three months. Graduated from Cambridge with a two-one in physics. IQ of one fifty-eight; exceptional pattern recognition and organizational skills. No warnings, written or otherwise. Rather cute.

Jack tossed the printouts Suzie had left in his inbox back on his desk. This Jones kid sounded good, and it was true that the archives were in absolute shambles. The constant complaints about the state of the rather unique filing system were getting old, and they just wouldn't stop, even after Jack's insistence that _he_ could find anything in the Hub at the drop of a hat.

They needed someone, and Jones seemed like the perfect candidate. Jack looked down at the kid's file photo, which he knew didn't do justice to what was in reality a rather sexy, clean-cut little office boy.

The rather out of place sheet of crisp, thick white paper peeked out from under the slightly grainy printed files—somebody needed to remember to clean those inkjets soon. Jack slid the other papers away, picking up the CV that had been hand delivered to the tourist office that day, when Jack had been up digging around under the counter for some receipt or another that he couldn't account for in the books. He'd been sweaty and a little grimy, with his braces hanging off his hips, but hell, he'd been up all night slaving over the accounting, and who in their right mind would be visiting a tourist office at seven in the morning? Not even the team came in that early.

There he was though, in all his polished and properly suited glory. Ianto Jones cut quite a figure in pinstripes and a steel blue tie, fine enough that Jack's very first thought wasn't how he'd look out of it. He'd taken a moment to enjoy the lines of fine wool and long legs first.

Maybe that's why he was even considering the transfer at all. The kid had pushed just the right buttons, with the suit and the "sir" and all that professional spit-shine. Still, as much as he wanted to talk himself out of it, Jack knew it was more than just a pretty face, a smoking body, and an office kink that had warmed him to the idea of Ianto Jones. The kid was fierce, deep down in there. Jack saw it in his eyes and the way he held his jaw. He wouldn't say the kid was brainless, not according to his files, and now he couldn't say he was ball-less either.

Jack sat back, studying the CV again as he propped his feet up on the desk. How much could it really hurt to at least give him a chance? Retcon was on the menu if he wasn't transferred on, and retcon would be the answer if the job didn't work out.

What would have happened to _him_ if he hadn't been given a second chance by a certain bubbly blonde angel and a prickly yet strangely irresistible U-Boat captain? He'd just been lucky that the Doctor had been able to reprogram the nanogenes, or Jack would have far more blood on his hands than Ianto Jones could even comprehend. The whole world transformed. All of humanity destroyed.

Fuck, he would have been as bad as Yvonne.

Jack leaned over and grabbed the phone, dialling the number from the top of the CV and noting that it was a Cardiff code. It rang one and a half times before somebody picked up, and Jack was greeted by another dose of smooth, dulcet Welsh tones. He couldn't help but smile slightly into the mouthpiece.

"Mr. Jones. It's Captain Jack Harkness. I'm prepared to offer you a position here at our Cardiff office…"


End file.
